Memories of Tomorrow
by popping corn
Summary: Following the events of his fifth year, Harry is spiralling into depression. To make things worse he accidentally lands himself in the past, in his parent’s era. Plagued by memories of what is to come he must cope with this new situation.
1. Summer Holidays

A/N: Hi everyone. Thank you for your patience during the rewriting of this story. Formerly called Harry's Trip in Time although much has changed. I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to vote on the new title and everyone who reviewed. I hope you enjoy the new version of the story and will take the time to comment in a review.

Summary: Harry is thoroughly depressed after the events of his fifth year; he is having nightmares and spiralling into a deep depression. Several parties are afraid he might do something drastic. To make things worse he accidentally lands himself in the past, in his parent's era, what will he do? Plagued by memories of what has happened and what is to come, he struggles to cope with life and come to terms with his destiny.

How will he survive with teenage versions of his parents: An immature and suspicious James, a confused Lily, a childish Sirius and a slightly bookish Remus and what of their betrayer Wormtail? Will he ever be able to get back? What of his friends in the future, or is it the past? More importantly will our favourite hero find the family he has craved his whole life? Is this just the thing he needs to heal from his grief and come out stronger?

Rating: 12A

Warnings: Contains some swearing

Pairings: None

**Chapter I: Summer Holidays**

Thunder clapped overhead. There had been torrential downpour on and off for the past two weeks, even though it was mid-July. There were floods in some parts of the country. The government was getting quite anxious as to the sudden climate change; the weathermen were baffled as to the reason for this, and the BBC were being bombarded with calls from angry citizens who had been leaving the safety and security of their homes for the foretold sunshine, only to be met with heavy downpour. Amidst all this chaos there was one teenage boy lying lethargically on his bed in the smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive who hadn't noticed; in fact, this boy had barely noticed anything for just over a month. The thunder and heavy raindrops splattering on his window were nothing more than meaningless, irrational noise, after the loss of his godfather, Sirius Black.

Harry Potter was an orphan, his parents murdered when he was only a year old, by the most evil wizard to emerge in over a century, Lord Voldemort, leaving him with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead when the curse that had killed thousands of fully grown witches and wizards had backfired on its originator. The only reason he had survived was because his mother had sacrificed her life for him, thereby sealing an ancient spell. This scar was what he was famous for in the wizarding world. This scar had burdened him with a life of worry and unhappiness. It was this scar that made him marked man, a human target, and although he hadn't known what it meant until a couple of weeks ago, he knew that he was going to be targeted by Lord Voldemort ever since his first year at Hogwarts.

He'd just finished his fifth year ― and he wished the end of the year had never arrived, he wished he had learned Occlumency properly or been smart enough to realise that Snape could not have spoken more clearly in front of that cruel hag they called a teacher, Umbridge; he should have recognised the glance Snape had given him as one of assurance that his message had been understood, and he should have come back to find out after they had led Umbridge into the forest. Maybe then, just maybe, Sirius would still be alive, maybe Harry would be with Sirius right now, maybe he wouldn't be here, _jealous_ of the Dursleys, of all people going about their daily lives as a family. He wasn't included in their nice normal family, but it would have been nice to have a family he could call his own, and he had killed the last chance he had had at getting that.

Professor Dumbledore had eventually come clean with him, telling him that he had been prophesised to be the one with the power to kill Voldemort, he was _destined_ to kill or be killed by Lord Voldemort. Oh, how he hated the word _destiny_. Did he not have a choice? Could he not have his own life, where no one dictated what he was to do? Or who he saw or met? Where he went? His entire life seemed to have been controlled by one person or another, and at the very top of this control hierarchy lay Dumbledore and Voldemort. All his misfortunes seemed to lead back to one or the other ― intentional or not was a different matter, but the result was the same.

Voldemort was officially back now. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, who had adamantly denied his return for the past year and sought to discredit both Harry and Dumbledore, had been forced to admit that he was back after the fiasco at the ministry. The 

_Daily Prophet_ had done a complete one-eighty and portrayed Harry as a tragic hero who was "the lone voice of truth, forced to bear ridicule and slander." Never mind the ridicule and slandering was done by them. The articles portraying Harry as a stupid, attention-seeking teenager who wanted to stay in the limelight had bothered him last year, but now they seemed like a petty thing to have been worrying about, a mere nuisance that he could have done without because they caused no real harm.

He wished that he didn't have to worry about such morbid things, and that the reality of war hadn't really hit home and had affected his godfather in the worst possible way; and to top it all off he had the prophecy to worry about; the prophecy that was the cause of his parents' death and now Sirius'.

_Sirius_. Harry's heart ached. He hadn't really realised before what the expression heartbreak meant ― he had dismissed it as melodramatic and exaggerated ― but now, now his heart bled at the mere thought of Sirius, his heart really was breaking, and he didn't know how to stop it, he didn't _want_ to stop it. He had relived the process of Sirius' death so many times this summer. Every waking moment was filled with Sirius' last moments replaying themselves, as if imprinted on the back of his eyes. His nights were full of Sirius. The night time was the worst; the dreams had additional events, accusing glares, betrayed glances.

His eyes welled up with tears. He couldn't take it anymore; everything seemed to happen to him. If only he wasn't so stupid, Sirius wouldn't have got killed, Sirius would still be alive… it was all his fault. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he be just another random person who had parents and Sirius and a happy life? Why? Why?

Harry dimly registered the Dursleys getting ready for lunch. He could hear the plates clattering, but he didn't care anymore. Quite frankly, he had lost the will to live. He knew he shouldn't be feeling this way, since thousands of people were counting on him to kill Voldemort for them, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment. These were the same people who had ridiculed him for the last year and printed false stories about him the year before. The same people who sat at home doing nothing, and then wondering why no one had done anything to stop the rising threat. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to kill anyone. 

His parents had already been killed because of the prophecy, and Sirius, too; who would be next? Ron? Hermione?

He hardly ate these days, and when he did it was very little, barely enough to sustain him. He liked the feeling of hunger. It was a different feeling than the hollow emptiness; gave him something else to focus on, other than the gaping hole in his chest. Most of the time he just felt sick, anyway ― it was a physical thing, he just_ couldn't_ eat, the smell of food made bile rise up in his throat ― and about the only things he could stomach were water and plain toast. He was a little hungry right now, but he could wait a couple more hours for the night to come, and then he would eat, undisturbed by his_ loving_ relatives. For now, though, maybe he should take a walk round the park to pass the time, get out of here. Hmm, yeah, maybe he should… he couldn't really be bothered, but he supposed that he really should. He hadn't left the house in ages, and maybe the change in scenery would do some good, even if it was a bunch of broken swings.

* * *

Petunia picked at her roast. She was glad it was the summer, even though the weather had been more reminiscent of autumn, but her Duddykins was home and her husband was here, and they were enjoying a nice meal together. Everything was great. The days had passed uneventfully during the school year; she had done the cooking, cleaning and the dusting as she usually did when the freak was away. He was back now, and she'd probably only seen him twice this whole summer. It was a bother to be doing the housework, but she found that she would rather do the housework herself than tolerate his presence. It was strange, though ― the only time they heard anything from him was during the nights.

Stupid, ungrateful brat, she thought, but her heart wasn't really in it. She looked at Vernon and nodded, making a noise of assent. Why on Earth did he think she cared about which football player was being transferred where?

"Mum?" asked Dudley hesitantly in the lull in conversation.

"Yes, darling?"

"Did…Did something happen?" he asked, keeping his eyes averted to his plate.

She noticed that he hadn't had much. "What do you mean, honey?"

"I mean, like, with Harry. He hasn't come out of his room all summer."

Petunia studiously avoided Vernon's eyes. She'd noticed, too. What _had_ happened?

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear. Here, have some more potatoes."

"Do you think there's something wrong?"

"Why do you care?" she snapped.

Dudley looked taken aback. "I don't. I just wanted to know." The truth was, he was afraid for his cousin; one of Dudley's dorm mates at Smeltings had slit his wrists last year and went through intensive therapy, and the rest of them had been given lessons on mental health disorders including depression, and how to help someone suffering from it – if only he could remember them. It hadn't been pretty; Dudley didn't think he would ever get that image out of his mind. Harry was acting like that now, and he didn't want that to happen to his cousin

It wasn't that he liked him or anything, but Harry hadn't really done anything to him, and he had in fact saved Dudley's life last year from those Dementors. Dudley shivered slightly. He hated those things, and if he never met another one again, it would be too soon.

A lot had happened last year; not that he'd ever tell his mother or father, they didn't know anything. They would probably say that Michael would have deserved it if he had died for being stupid enough to slit his wrists. Dudley knew that no one deserved that. He had been one of the ones that had bullied Michael. He tried to make amends, but he still felt incredibly guilty. He was only having a bit of fun! He hadn't meant for him to take it so seriously! All that blood… He had done the same to Harry. Oh, God, what if Harry was going to off himself because of him? He had to do something!

* * *

Harry dragged himself out of bed, slipped on his oversized trainers and stretched, clicking his back in the process. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the window. "Merlin, I look awful," he thought detachedly– his eyes looked like twin bruises, his hair limp and greasy, and his clothes hung off him worse than usual. He closed his eyes briefly, hating his reflection, and turned away from the window, dragging his feet out of his room and down the stairs out the front door.

* * *

Dudley heard the front door close and frowned slightly. Had Harry gone out? That was odd, he never left the house. _I wonder where he's going__?_ Maybe he should follow, just to make sure. Yeah, that's what he would do. He took a quick look at his parents. His mother was clearing the table and his father had already moved to the sofa in the living room. He wouldn't be missed. He glanced out of the window; the rain seemed to have stopped. He stood up and grabbed his jacket off the sofa where he had left it earlier, checked his pockets to make sure he had his keys, wallet and phone, and left the house, intent on catching up to Harry.

* * *

Harry walked along the street towards the park, several nosy neighbours peeking out of their windows to catch a glimpse of the delinquent who went to St Brutus' for Incurably Criminal Boys. He came to a sudden stop. He was in Magnolia Crescent. This was where he had first seen Sirius in his dog form, before he knew of his innocence, just after he had seen the long-haired escaped convict on the Muggle news. His breath hitched and he tore his eyes away from the street corner, staring resolutely ahead. He picked up his pace and continued onwards towards his destination. He was _not_ going to cry.

* * *

Dudley walked, scanning the street ahead for any sign of Harry. What was he going to say? _Hi, Harry, I know I bullied you when we were younger, but don't kill yourself, please._ That sounded stupid even to himself. How about, '_Harry, I know it's difficult to live with people who hate you_'? No, that wouldn't do either; he didn't want to make Harry more depressed. Hmm, this was difficult. '_Harry, don't be depressed, I didn't mean to make fun of you when we were younger_'? No, that was too obvious. '_I'm sorry, Harry, I didn't mean to bully you_'? Ha, fat chance of him believing that! '_Harry, I know I was an idiot when we were kids, but_'– but what? '_Hey, Harry,_ _I didn't thank you for saving me from the Dementors last summer_'– yeah, that sounded all right.

* * *

Harry reached the park, not quite in record time – that had been achieved a long time ago, before Hogwarts, when Dudley and his friends used to play Harry Hunting. He smiled wryly; it was a testament of how bad things had become, that he could almost call those good times. The swing was wet. So was everything else. He wiped the seat with his sleeve and sat, swinging morosely.

* * *

Dudley found Harry at the park, swinging lightly. His posture screamed depression and Dudley debated the best way to approach. Maybe from behind would be best. His attempt to advance silently was ruined by his trainers squelching in the mud.

"Harry?"

"What do you want, Dudley?" he replied, without turning.

Dudley looked at him, indescion clawing at his face. "Er ―"

Harry looked at him, and Dudley noted his eyes weren't as bright as he remembered them to be. "What is it, Dudley? I can't be bothered right now."

Dudley shuffled his feet awkwardly. What had happened to his script? "Um ―"

Harry looked away again.

"I…er…I justwantedtosaythatI'msorryforeverythingIdidtoyouwhenwewereyounger."

Harry looked at him blankly. "What?"

Dudley took a deep breath. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for everything I did to you when we were younger."

"Oh. It's okay," he replied, once again turning away.

This annoyed Dudley, because he didn't know what he was thinking.

"It's okay? What kind of shit answer is that?"

"What do you want me to say, Dudley? That it wasn't fair, I hadn't done anything? That I hated being picked on? That I hated being alone? That I wish none of it happened? Well, it did, and it's in the past now – I honestly couldn't care less about it. What brought this on, anyway?"

"I really am sorry. Maybe…maybe we could start over, or something?"

"Mmm," Harry replied absently.

"Truce?" Dudley asked, sticking out his hand.

Harry looked at him, trying to find some sort of lie. Dudley found it creepy. It was as if Harry was assessing his worth. Finally, seemingly finding no lie, he shook Dudley's hand, looking slightly apprehensive.

"Should we go home now?"

"You go ahead, I'll be back later."

Dudley scanned his face and was satisfied that Harry wasn't about to do something drastic. He turned and walked back home, feeling lighter, as though he had gotten something off his chest.

* * *

Harry watched Dudley's retreating back. Was he serious? He certainly seemed that way. What had happened? Harry sat on the swing for a while longer, and then headed back to Number Four Privet Drive.

"BOY!" thundered his uncle as he walked through the door.

"What?"

"WHY ARE YOU SO LATE? Dudley was back ages ago. Now that's a boy who knows what a reasonable time to be back is –" Harry tuned him out; he was used to these monologues. " – not that I'd expect a delinquent like yourself to know proper manners or have any form of social ettiquette. You'd better be on your best behaviour when Marge gets here tomorrow, I swear, I'm warning you, boy, if I hear –"

That broke Harry out of his reverie, his heart thudding against his chest. "What? Marge is coming?"

"THAT'S AUNT MARGE TO YOU, BOY."

"Why?"

"WHY? WHY? THAT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS," he shouted, face purpling rapidly. "AND YOU'D BETTER DO AS I SAY AND BEHAVE YOURSELF TOMORROW AND HAVE A SHOWER TO CLEAN THAT DISGUSTING HAIR OF YOURS. GET OUT OF MY SIGHT NOW, YOU FILTHY FREAK!"

Harry retreated up the stairs, his mind whirring. Why the hell did Marge suddenly want to visit? _I swear, if she says _one_ thing, __just_ one _thing__ about Sirius or my parents, I won't stop at blowing her up. Maybe the Cruciatus would be more successful this time,_ he thought, hands clenched tightly by his side.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading. Please review.


	2. Misunderstandings

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy this next one!

**Chapter II – Misunderstandings**

Harry groggily came to at six o'clock, following another sleepless night. It took him fifteen seconds to identify the feeling in his stomach as apprehension and a further fifteen to realise that this apprehension had nothing to do with Voldemort and everything to do with Marge's visit, scheduled for later that day.

He groaned and flopped back onto his bed, wishing that one of Marge's disgusting dogs had fallen sick and she had to stay to look after them. Then again, she'd probably just leave them with Colonel Filibuster, who had looked after her dogs last time. All this thinking of dogs brought Harry's mind back to Sirius. Sirius the Grim, Sirius the playful dog at the station, Sirius who had always been there for him since third year, Sirius who escaped Azkaban for him, Sirius. Just Sirius. Family. Dead family. Family Harry had murdered.

He wondered what would happen later today. Would they make him carry Marge's bags? Cook? He hadn't done that since last summer. Come to think of it, he hadn't done anything this summer. Well, that was an improvement, at least. He wasn't a human house elf, though how long would it last?

Something else had happened yesterday; what was it? He racked his brain, searching for the answer. He felt it was something important, something strange. What was it? What _was_ it? His eyes fell on the pile of unopened mail that Hedwig and various other owls had delivered. Ah well, it couldn't possibly be that important if he couldn't remember it, could it? Yeah, those were letters from Ron and Hermione. Ginny, Luna and Neville had written to him also, but he couldn't muster the energy to bring himself to read meaningless words of condolences. They weren't going to bring Sirius back. Heaving a hearty sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and went down to grab a piece of toast and some water before the Dursleys woke up.

* * *

Petunia groaned softly and looked at the clock. 6:13 a.m. Too early, she thought and rolled over, trying to get back to sleep. Vernon was snoring again. He always snored and it bugged her so much! The only way she could have a decent night's sleep was if she fell asleep first. One would think she would be used to it by now! Between her husband and stupid freaky nephew screaming his head off all night, she was lucky to get any sleep at all. Stupid freak. What the hell was his problem, anyway? As if it wasn't enough that he was contaminating their house, he couldn't even let decent people sleep.

She heard Dudley shuffling about in his room and frowned slightly; that was odd, Dudley never woke up at this time. Her poor Dudders, he had lost quite a bit of weight. That school of his didn't give him nearly enough food for a growing boy. His appetite had decreased, and his stomach was shrinking because he didn't get enough to eat over the school year. Poor, poor Dudley. And asking about the freak! The _freak_! Since when did he care about the freak? Maybe they had been too lenient with him this year. Yes, that was it, they had been much too lenient with him. She would have to mention it to Vernon when he woke up. Vernon would whip him into shape. Starting today, he was going to have chores again. He could start with the cooking today for Marge. Marge sure ate a lot. A woman shouldn't eat so much and drink all that wine she drank. Disgusting. She would never mention anything to Vernon, that was for sure, he wouldn't like that; at least she wasn't a freak like_ her_ sister. Back to the freak…yes, he would do the housework today, she deserved the day off. After all, she'd been doing everything the whole summer.

* * *

Harry finished the last bite of his toast and gulped down a glass of water. He brushed the crumbs off his shirt and took a quick look around the kitchen. The bin hadn't been emptied, nor had the floor been scrubbed. That bitch made him do those every single day when he was only six, and she didn't even do it herself. Pushing those thoughts aside, he went back upstairs to his room, cursing the day he was left on the Dursleys' doorstep.

* * *

Dudley was scared. He didn't want to admit it, but he was terrified, every fibre of his being quivering with dread. He didn't know what to do. He pulled open a drawer. Harry had scared him yesterday, he had been so…so…what was the word…_unbothered_ about anything; surely that wasn't normal? Dudley had tossed and turned last night trying to find a solution to his dilemma. Ignore Harry as he had done for the past four years, and run the risk of him killing himself? Or talk to him and try to talk him out of it? He could still see all the blood in Michael's room. And if he did decide to talk to him, what the hell would he say? They'd never exactly been close and Harry was a good guy; after all the trouble he'd given him when they were younger, he'd still gone out of his way to save Dudley last year, even drag him all the way back home. That must've been hard; Harry had always been scrawny.

Where were they? He knew they were here somewhere. He slammed the drawer shut and pulled open the next one down.

He realised now that Harry had been helping him. What would Dudley have done in the same situation? Laughed at him? Watched from afar? Ran away as fast as he could? He certainly wouldn't have saved him or gone out of his way to help him home. What kind of person did that make him? He hated to admit it, but he was a selfish brat who had been terribly spoiled by his parents. He understood now what people had seen all these years ago, what everyone except he and his parents had believed. But he also knew that things were changing; that counsellor at school had helped him. A lot of things were going to change. He was going to become a better person, his _own_ person, with his _own_ opinions. He wasn't going to follow blindly what his parents said, and he was going to make his own decisions, even if his parents didn't like it.

Aha – here they were: the leaflets they'd given him at school.

_Depression:_

_Symptoms of __depression __include:_

_continuous low mood, or sadness _

Well, Harry's mood was low, and sad.

_feelings of hopelessness and helplessness_

Hopelessness and helplessness? Maybe, he didn't really know about that. Did Harry feel helpless and hopeless?

_tearfulness_

Did crying in your sleep that count as tearfulness? Because Harry cried all the time in his sleep.

_feelings of guilt_

Guilt? About what? Did Harry feel guilty? Maybe Dudley should ask him.

_feeling irritable and intolerant towards others_

Yep, definitely irritable and intolerant.

_lack of motivation, and little interest in things in general_

That explained the shitty replies Harry was giving him.

_lack of enjoyment_

What did Harry enjoy, anyway?

_suicidal thoughts, or thoughts of harming someone else _

Oh, God, please no, did that mean Harry was suicidal?! Oh no! He had to do something. _Okay Dudley, stop panicking. Deep breath, just carry on reading the rest_.

_slowed movement and speech_

Yeah, he was slow, kinda dopey as well.

_a reduced sex drive_

That elicited a small smile. How the hell was he supposed to know?

_change in appetite and weight _

Well, he'd always been skinny, but Dudley hadn't seen him eat at all summer.

_unexplained __aches__and pains_

He didn't know about that.

_taking part in fewer social activities, and avoiding contact with friends_

Avoiding contact with everyone, more like.

_difficulties in home and with family life_

That had always been there, but yeah.

_Mental disorders (particularly depression and substance abuse) are associated with more than 90 of all cases of suicide._

Oh no!

_**The warning signs of suicide**_

_Some of the warning signs that can signify __people with depression__ are considering suicide are outlined below._

_**Making final arrangements**_

_**Talking about death or suicide**__ - this may be a direct statement, such as 'I wish I was dead,' but often depressed people will talk about the subject indirectly, using phrases like, 'I think dead people must be happier than us,' or 'wouldn't it be nice to go to sleep and never wake up?'_

What was it Harry said in the park? "Wouldn't it be nice to just sleep forever"?

_**Self-harm**_

_**A sudden lifting of mood**__ - this sudden lift of mood could mean that a person has decided to commit suicide and feels better because of this decision_.

_If you see any of the above warning signs, you should:_

_get professional help for the person_

_let them know that they are not alone and you care about them, and_

_offer your support in finding other solutions to their problems_

Yes, he could do that. He was going to make sure Harry didn't think he was alone. Harry was not going to commit suicide. Maybe he could get Harry to talk to Paul, his counsellor. He had his number; he would call him later today and see what he could do. And with a plan and an idea of what he would do, he could sit back and relax till the_ real_ morning started — anything before ten wasn't really morning.

* * *

Harry jumped slightly, but otherwise didn't move as the door to his room crashed open to admit his uncle.

"Boy, you will be doing chores for the rest of the summer. I don't care what your freaky friends said, this is my house, and you will live under my rules. Your aunt will tell you what has to be done. Get your lazy arse downstairs now."

Vernon turned and left the room, teeth clenched tightly. He _hated _that little freak.

Harry groaned inwardly and dragged himself with great effort off the bed. He had known it wouldn't last. As if he didn't have enough to be dealing with, he had gone and jinxed himself. _At least it isn't anyone else,_ he thought. He washed his face in the bathroom and resignedly went downstairs to get his list of chores.

The first item on the long list of chores was the hoovering. He bent down to get the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard under the stairs and felt a strange sense of nostalgia, accompanied with a strong twinge of resentment. Life had been much simpler when he had slept there, not that that excused the Dursleys from treating an innocent child in their care in that way, normal or not.

* * *

Dudley threw the covers off his body and mentally checked through what his plans for the day were. He was going out with Piers at about two, since Piers wanted a new pair of trainers and he was going along for the ride. He needed to talk to Harry again, he had to call Paul, but first – breakfast.

He made his own breakfast for a change. His mother was out shopping and Harry was changing the sheets in the guest room – not that he would have told Harry to make breakfast for him or anything. He took his phone out of his pocket and shifted slightly so that he could see into the hallway to make sure Harry wasn't anywhere within earshot and dialled Paul's number, still listening intently for any sign of Harry. Getting the ring tone, he abruptly stood up and decided to take his conversation into the garden to reduce the risk of Harry walking in on him.

Paul picked up on the third ring. "Hello."

"Hi, Paul. This is Dudley."

"Oh, hi Dudley, how are you doing?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Paul, but I wanted to talk to you about something, is that okay?"

"Of course it is, Dudley, you know that. What is it?"

"It's my cousin Harry. You remember him? I told you about him. He lives with us. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember, his parents died in a car crash, right?"

"Yeah, that's right." He paused. "I'm really scared, Paul," he admitted in a whisper. "Harry is behaving really weirdly, I think he's depressed. Remember those leaflets they gave us last year? Harry fits the description of depression, I think he's gonna do what Michael did. I think he's going to kill himself! I don't know what to do, Paul, what am I supposed to do? You've got to help me!" he said, his voice rising hysterically at the end.

"Dudley, calm down. What you're saying is really serious. Are you sure?"

"Sure about what? 'Course I'm not sure, but I've seen him, man. He's lost so much weight, you should see him, he's just bones! He has nightmares every night, and he never comes down to eat. Paul, I don't know what to do!"

"Have you tried speaking to him?"

"Not really, I mean, we're not exactly close or anything. Actually, we're not close at all. I was really evil to him before. I did apologise yesterday, but…"

"But what?"

"But he was just, like, nothing. He said it was okay, but that was it, he didn't say anything else, he didn't shout, scream, nothing, just 'Okay.' "

"Have you spoken to your parents about your concerns?"

"What? No way, man! No way! They hate Harry, they would _push_ him to do it."

"Dudley, I think the best thing for you to do right now is try to make Harry feel as though he is needed, make him feel supported, try to be his friend. People who are depressed tend to shy away from company. Don't force him into anything, but encourage him to maybe go out with you somewhere or do something together. Don't push him to talk, but make sure he knows that he can trust you if he wants to. It's not going to be easy, especially if you haven't gotten along well in the past."

"Okay, I'll do that."

"Anything else?"

A pause, in which Dudley mentally repeated what Paul had said. "No, I think that's it."

"Okay then. Remember, if you need anything you can always call me. If you're still worried about Harry, give me another ring and we'll see what we can do. Maybe you can bring him to see me, or something. It's possible he may need professional help, so keep an eye out."

"Okay, thanks, Paul."

"All right then Dudley, see you around, take care of yourself."

"You too, Paul, bye." He pressed the end call button and went back inside, feeling much lighter now that he'd talked to someone and had some idea of what to do.

* * *

The day passed fairly normally for Harry, until around three in the afternoon. Vernon had already left to get Marge from the station and Petunia was gone to get ready for her arrival. Harry had been washing the dishes; the repetitiveness of the job appealed to him as he rinsed the soap bubbles from the last of the plates. Dudley had come in to the kitchen at some point and was standing around watching Harry, and it was starting to grate on his nerves.

"What do you want, Dudley?"

Dudley jumped. He obviously hadn't been expecting conversation. "Ah, Harry," he said, before shuffling uncomfortably. "I just thought that I should tell you that you're not alone."

_What?_ Harry thought, stiffening, immediately becoming alarmed. _There are Death Eaters here? How on earth have they found me? _"Where? Who's here?" he said, eyes wide. "Where are they, Dudley?"

Dudley stared at him, baffled. What on earth was Harry talking about?

"Dudley! What did you see? Who told you that?" he said, abandoning the dishes and coming to stand in front of Dudley, dripping soapy water all over the kitchen floor.

"Harry…Harry, what are you talking about?"

Harry replied, taken aback, "You just said they were here."

"No, I didn't, I said you weren't alone," Dudley said slowly, as if talking to a child.

"Exactly, so where are they? Dudley, where are they? This isn't a game. _Where are they?_"

"There is no one here, I just meant…that if you need anything…I'm here…" he replied hesitantly, his face reddening.

"Oh. Okay," Harry said, deflating.

"Yeah…well…I'll just…be upstairs, then," Dudley muttered awkwardly, and fled from the kitchen.

Harry stared after him in shock._ "__If you need anything…I'm here…"_

What was that supposed to mean? Did he really expect Harry to _confide_ in him? The idea was so laughable he would have laughed out loud, had it not been for the sound of the car backing into the drive. Marge was here.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading. Please Review.

* * *


	3. Aunt Marge

This chapter is dedicated to EMMETRULEs247

Chapter 3: Aunt Marge

Hearing the car backing into the gravel driveway, Harry quickly rinsed the remainder of the dishes and dried his hands on the pink flowery tea towel that reminded him all too much of Umbridge. He grit his teeth at the thought of that foul woman and automatically glanced at the _'I must not tell lies'_ carved into his right hand, courtesy of the blood quill he was forced to write lines with during the many detentions of the previous year. It was the symbol of a bittersweet victory.

He hurriedly and silently went up the stairs to his room, damned if he was going to appear eager to carry Marge's bags. He could hear his aunt rummaging about in her room and the chinking of clothes hangers from Dudley's room indicated that he was probably getting dressed. Harry mussed up his hair, trying to make it appear messier than it already was. He wasn't going to impress Marge whatever he did – not that he wanted to, but if she was going to criticise him, then it might as well be for something that he had actually done as opposed to something he couldn't control. Anyway, the more he annoyed her, and by extension his aunt and uncle, the better.

He stood in his room, listening for the door and waiting to be called. He wasn't disappointed; the booming voice of his uncle reached his ears, calling him down to carry Marge's luggage into the guest room.

He took his time leaving his room and going down the stairs. Hopefully they would be in the dining room by the time he got down and he wouldn't need to expend any further effort dealing with them.

He picked up Marge's monster sized suitcases. Why on earth someone would need so many things for a week-long stay baffled him. He passed the dining room as quietly as he could and carried them into the guest room. Thankfully the guest room was on the ground floor, so he wouldn't have to drag them up the stairs; truthfully, he didn't know if he had he energy or the strength to do that. He deposited them by the foot of the bed and resisted the urge to take a quick look inside just to see what could possibly have made them so heavy. Not wanting to spend any more time than was necessary in the room with Marge's things, lest he be accused of stealing, he turned and left the room.

His plan to go straight up to his room and not come out until Marge was either gone or asleep was thwarted, however, as he was intercepted by his aunt, poised with one foot on the stairwell and his hand on the banister to propel himself forward.

"You will be sitting at the table tonight," she said, pursing her lips with an expression of extreme distaste on her face. "I will not have one of those…those freaks tell us we haven't been feeding you properly."

Harry gaped at her. Surely, it would be better to keep Marge and him as separate as possible.

"But Aunt Petunia –"

"No excuses! Set the table," she snapped and turned back into the kitchen, fully expecting him to follow. And he did.

*~*~*

The meal was a tense affair for Harry. The steak, although beautifully cooked (tender and crispy, just the way he liked it) felt like sawdust in his throat. He tried washing it down with water, but that wasn't much use either. His scar was throbbing dully; he had noticed it was doing a lot of that these days, especially when he was angry or tense. Thankfully, however, Voldemort hadn't tried contacting him again and he hadn't had any visions yet. He was sitting at the corner of the table that seated six, with Dudley on one side and an empty chair at the head nearest to him. He was grateful for Dudley's bulk because he was at least partially shielded from the wobbling chins and semi-masticated food in Marge's open mouth and not directly in her line of sight. He thought of Hermione and her insistence on table manners and constant nagging of Ron not to eat with his mouth full or to speak with food in his mouth, and was transiently amused by the expression of distaste he imagined her wearing if she were sitting here and watching the charming table manners of the Dursley family.

And Dudley, he was another enigma. It seemed as though he'd changed so much since last summer. Harry had entertained vague thoughts of Dudley's behaviour being some kind of strange prank, but quickly dismissed the idea. Dudley wasn't that subtle and there was no way he would be smart enough to pull something like that off. So there remained the question of what exactly his motives were. Did he want something that no one else but Harry could give him? Harry couldn't really think of an instance where this might be the case, unless it was something to do with magic, but he couldn't think of Dudley actually wanting to be near magic; in fact, following his experiences of magic, he had more reason than anyone to detest it, since his introduction to it wasn't what you would call pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. So the question remained: was he being sincere or not?

***

He had just been thinking how relieved he was that the meal was finally over and he could at last slip upstairs, away from the hateful glares of his family, when he rose to clear the table, keeping his head ducked in an abysmal effort to remain unnoticed. He was successful, to a certain degree, anyway. He had cleared away the serving dishes and had just moved on to clearing the individual plates when Marge focused her beady eyes on him, narrowed in what could only be described as hate. Harry stared back, unwilling to be the one who looked away. He really couldn't care less what her opinion of him was.

"Still here, are you?"

Wow, he thought, rolling his eyes, that woman — if you could call her that — really had a penchant for stating the obvious.

"Great observation, do you want a gold star?" he replied, not bothering to hide his contempt or take the sarcastic lilt out of his tone.

"How dare you? Vernon is keeping you here out of the goodness of his heart—"

What goodness? he thought. Vernon didn't have any goodness in his heart, unless you counted starving and locking an orphaned child in a cupboard goodness."— you should have been thrown out ages ago, you no good, lazy, lump of lard, just like your useless parents, couldn't even die with dignity. Drunk! Ha! That must be the worst way to go."

"Did I tell you who the boy's godfather turned out to be? Eh Marge?" Broke in Vernon, throwing a malicious glance at Harry.

Harry's teeth involuntarily clenched and his hand shot to his pocket to form a fist around his concealed wand.

"It's that murderer, the one that was on the news, remember? The one with the filthy hair?"

Marge let out a mirthless chuckle. "Makes sense, doesn't it? With parents like that, you can't possibly expect them to choose a _decent _folk as godparents; no, they _would_ choose filthy, murdering scum."

"He was innocent, you bitch," he replied coldly. He wasn't going to just stand there and let them degrade Sirius in front of him. Sirius deserved more than that.

"Innocent, was he?" she scoffed. "Just like you are?"

Harry smiled bitterly. "I'm not innocent," he said self-depreciatingly. "But Sirius was."

"You really are deluded boy, aren't you? He was a filthy, escaped convict. Scum, trash, just like you and your parents, the dregs of society polluting it for good, decent, hardworking people. The government should bring back the death sentence for people like your godfather."

Harry was trembling in rage. His scar throbbing painfully and all rationale thrown out the window, he took two steps towards her, pulled out his wand and pointed it straight at her throat. "Shut up," he ground out, teeth clenched tightly.

The reaction was instant; Vernon stood, knocking his chair over, face so red it was bordering on purple; Petunia's face paled to a pasty white; and Dudley stiffened.

Marge, however, not recognizing the significance, sneered, "Or what? You'll shoot me with a stick?"

"PUT IT AWAY, NOW, BOY!" thundered Vernon.

"Make me, _uncle." _

"You'll...you'll be expelled. You're not allowed to do you-know-what outside your freak school."

"They changed the rules, so I _am_ allowed."

"Vernon, what is going on? That is just a stick, what is wrong with you?"

"SHUT UP, YOU! DON'T SPEAK, I'LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR I WILL!" he screamed.

Marge's eyes widened fearfully, finally cognizant of the fact that he wasn't joking.

"Tell her, Uncle Vernon, tell her what this is. Come on, speak up."

Vernon shook his head mutely.

"How about you, Aunt Petunia?"

Petunia whimpered pitifully in response.

"No? All right, then I'll do it myself. This isn't _just _a stick," he spat venomously. "This is much _more_ than a _stick. _Do you want to know what it does? HUH? DO YOU? ANSWER ME! DO YOU?"

Marge didn't get a chance to answer, for at that moment the doorbell rang, diverting everyone's attention.

"Get the door, boy."

"Oh no, uncle,_ you_ get the door," he replied, moving the wand to point at him.

Vernon scrambled out the dining room as fast as he could, looking almost relieved to have been told to get the door. Harry trained the wand back onto Marge, breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Sirius was a good man. Say it. SAY IT."

"S-S-Sirius w-was a g-good man."

"That's better. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

She shook her head silently.

Vernon chose that moment to walk back in again, his guest trailing behind him.

"Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."

***

It was his turn for guard duty and he had decided that it would be a good idea to drop in to visit Harry towards the end of his shift and tell him of the arrangements they'd made to pick him up, and also discern for himself, how he was coping with Sirius Black's demise. The reports from other members of the Order who had been on guard duty hadn't been very encouraging. They had reported the boy staying in his room the whole day, with the curtains drawn, leaving only to go to the bathroom and eating very little. Therefore, he had been pleased to find that he was moving around the house today doing what looked like chores, but at least he wasn't spending the day moping in his room. It even looked like he had sat down for dinner with the family. It was hard to see exactly what was going on through the net curtains that covered the windows to prevent nosy passers-by from peering into their home. Right now it looked like they had finished their meal and were clearing the table. He figured that now would be a good time to knock on the door, and invite himself in if the Muggles didn't let him in, and if they did, well, all the better.

He pushed the doorbell and heard a sweet melody coming from beyond the door. It was lucky that he had lived with Muggles for a while, because he now had a basic understanding of Muggle day to day life that most of his magical friends did not. He did remember, though, the first time he'd come across a muggle doorbell. He'd been working at a local jewellers shop and had been asked by the old lady that owned the store if he would be all right locking up at closing time and if he could take the key to her house so that she would be able to open up the next morning. He'd agreed and locked up at closing time. Everything had been fine and going according to plan until he had arrived at her house. He'd stood outside for ten minutes or so, looking for the door knocker, which didn't exist. He'd then proceeded to rap on the door with his knuckles, but obviously this hadn't worked. Either she hadn't heard, or Muggle doors were somehow warded against sound. A little button — which, he later found out, was called a doorbell — had caught his attention and he had pushed it. Hearing a strange buzzing sound coming from inside the house, he took his finger off and it stopped. He tried again, and again the strange buzzing sound was heard. He took his finger off and it stopped. Off, on, off, on, off, on, off. The buzzer had brought out the little boy in him, so he pushed it again, deciding to keep his finger on it until the door was flung open. He hadn't realised that the doorbell was meant to be pushed once and then he was supposed to wait. What followed next was an interesting conversation, which comprised mainly of her yelling at him and him mumbling excuses and apologies. He learnt not do that again, so here he was, waiting outside on the Dursley's neatly trimmed lawn, facing the red door of number four Privet Drive, waiting for the Muggles to open it. He didn't have to wait too long, as he heard loud footsteps echoing and the door was flung open to reveal a very red-faced Vernon Dursley.

"Yes?" he said gruffly.

"Mr Dursley, is Harry in?"

The man's face, if possible, turned even redder. "You're one of _them_," he said accusingly.

"Er, yes. I think," he replied, hoping that by 'them,' he meant wizard, and not something else.

"I suppose you're not going to take no for an answer."

"No, not really."

Vernon turned and walked back in. Taking that as his invitation, he followed.

_"Sirius was a good man. Say it. SAY IT."_

That was Harry's voice. What on Earth?he thought, bewildered.

_"S-S-Sirius w-was a g-good man."_

His eyebrows furrowed. What was going on?

_"That's better. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"_

He walked in to find Harry holding his family at wand point, the tip aimed at an exceptionally large woman. He was shaking in rage and appeared to be furious. He wondered what could have set him off like this, although he did have a fairly good idea. Albus had told him how Harry had demolished his office in his anger the day of the fiasco at the Ministry of Magic.

"Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."

Harry's attention snapped to the newcomer, and slowly the blinding rage dissipated from his eyes, only to be replaced with confusion. "Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?"


	4. Confrontations

**AN: A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review. I was extremely disappointed by the low response to the previous chapter and I hope, it being the Christmas season, maybe I could have a few more reviews than before? **

**That being said I'd like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. **

**A few people have pointed out that this is supposed to be a time travel story- Yes it is but I am trying to build up and set the general mood and tone for the story before Harry is transported to the past. Fear not, Harry will be in the past at chapter six, which is almost complete and will be sent to my beta by the end of the holidays (hopefully!). **

**A huge thank you to my beta Laughableblackstorm, who has been great throughout and has helped a great deal with the polishing up of my story.**

**Chapter IX: Confrontations**

_Previously: "Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."_

_Harry's attention snapped to the newcomer, and slowly the blinding rage dissipated from his eyes, only to be replaced with confusion. "Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?"_

_***  
_"Harry, lower your wand," he repeated carefully.

The confusion almost disappeared from his eyes as he frowned fiercely and gripped his wand tighter.

"Harry, please put the wand down. Sirius wouldn't want you to do this."

He lowered it slightly, but did not loosen his grip.

"Harry, I need to talk to you, shall we go up to your room?"

He nodded sharply and strode out the room, his footsteps heavier than they should have been.

*~*~*

"Harry, what was that all about? You know you're not allowed to use your wand out of school."

"I know," he mumbled.

Remus looked at him carefully and decided that now wasn't the best time to pursue this line of discussion.

"Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to be here. I just wanted to see how you were doing and give you the heads up that we're picking you up later today."

Harry ducked his head and remained silent.

"How are you, Harry? Really?"

"I'm okay."

Remus raised his eyebrows.

"No, really, I am, I'm fine."

"The truth, please."

"I'm fine, I just get so mad sometimes when they talk about…you know," he replied, turning his face so that he didn't meet Remus' eyes. A horrible, mad feeling bubbled up inside him before he could think over his reply properly and threatened to overspill. What was wrong with him? He couldn't even say his name. He'd lowered Sirius below Voldemort's level. The feeling continued to rise up inside him, getting angrier and angrier, bubbling more furiously, and before he could make heads or tails of what he was feeling, it escaped in the form of a deep belly laugh, and he laughed and laughed, until he had forgotten what it was he had found so funny in the first place. The tears spilling down his cheeks unchecked finally culminated in deep gasping breaths that he struggled to take, braced with his arms outstretched in front of him, fixing his shoulder joint in place so that he could use his pectoral muscles to aid his breathing in his fight to regain control of his raging emotions. The struggle for control was finally won by his brutal suppression of the despair he felt following his bout of hysteria, forcibly choking down his sobs.

"Harry! Harry!"

He raised his eyes slightly and took another shuddering breath. "I'm fine," he said automatically, hating the way his voice cracked.

"Harry, I don't want to go until I'm sure you're okay."

"Professor Lupin, I'm fine, see," he said, stretching out his arms in front of him and turning them over, "nothing wrong with me."

"Fine? You're anything but fine! What was that about then?"

"I am fine. Leave. Me. Alone."

"You are obviously not fine, Harry. Want to tell me what that was about? How about what happened downstairs? What would have happened had I not come in?"

"Nothing would have happened. Nothing," he replied firmly, unsure of who he was trying to convince. "Anyway, what's it to you? Since when did you care? Huh?" he added, flaring up. He didn't know where all this anger was coming from, but it felt so much better just to be angry. To just shut down and think of nothing and let his tongue take over from his brain.

"Harry, I've always cared about you."

"Yeah, sure you have," he said sarcastically, stretching out the 'sure' over several beats. "Where were you when my parents were murdered? Where were you when I was left in this god-forsaken hole? Huh?" He paused to stand up and take a step towards Remus, ignoring the stricken look on his face. "I only met you when I was in my third year and even then you didn't say anything. Where were you last year after the Triwizard Tournament? Why should I trust you? Why should I believe you? You don't care about me. You. Don't. Give. A. Damn," he finished, looking straight into his eyes and holding his gaze for a moment, as he spat the last word at him.

"Harry, I do care about you. I lost everything the night your parents were murdered, I know it's not an excuse, but I was a mess, in no fit state to look after myself let alone a baby, even if the ministry didn't have restrictions on werewolves. Harry, let me make it up to you. Give me another chance. Please. You can stay with me at Headquarters instead of coming back here."

"You're not Sirius, okay? Stop trying to take his place."

Remus visibly flinched, swallowing the bitter feelings that threatened to overcome him. "I'm not trying to take his place," he croaked at last. His eyes were shuttered, and the lines around his mouth stood out in sharp contrast to the pasty white, his face had turned. He stood up stiffly. "I'm going now, be ready to leave at seven," he added coolly.

Harry watched him leave through narrowed eyes with a perverse sense of satisfaction. No one, no one would take Sirius' place, ever.

*~*~*

It was ten to seven; his relatives had steered clear of him, after Remus had left. He hadn't gone back downstairs and they hadn't come up, but they sounded strangely subdued. There was none of the usual shuffling and occasional bumps. He imagined them to be seated in the sitting room, an atmosphere of high strung tension, eyes glued on the television screen but not really watching, with Petunia taking up the role of a good host and getting up every now and then to bring platters of food to serve in an attempt to break the tense atmosphere. All of the plates were most likely returned to the kitchen untouched. Vernon would be seated in his favorite armchair clutching a can of Heinekens', vein throbbing in his temple, action mirrored by his beefy sister and Dudley, in the midst of it all, unsure what to make of what just happened.

*~*~*

He had tossed everything into his trunk haphazardly, where it lay in a jumbled mess of worn-out clothes, books and miscellaneous little artifacts he had gathered over the years, mostly gifts from Ron. The Ireland rosette he had bought two years previously was still there, albeit a little crumpled at the edges and the animation spell had long worn off. He picked up the miniature model of the Hungarian Horntail and traced the outline of its wings. That dragon had been very protective of its young. It was cruel really, to capture nesting mothers and threaten the destruction or theft of their eggs. It must be instinct – the protectiveness of a mother towards her young. He threw the model roughly into the trunk and it flapped its wings feebly in protest as it hit the hard wooden back. He slammed the lid shut and sat, head in his hands, breathing heavily.

*~*~*

The convoy had finally arrived, and reluctantly he made his way down the stairs dragging his trunk behind him. Every thump it made felt like an extra weight in his stomach. Every step was suddenly harder to take, as if his shoes were not the worn out fabric they were, but heavy leaden boots.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath to steady himself against the impeding sense of doom that threatened to overtake his senses, and when he reached out to open the door, he noticed, with dismay, that his hands were trembling uncontrollably. Another deep breath later, he opened the door and resolutely strode outside. A green Vauxhall Astra was parked on the street outside the door. The path from the door to the street seemed to be longer than it usually was. Tonks, in the guise of a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and fitted black trousers, slotted perfectly in the mundane neighbourhood and was, unsurprisingly, considering her Muggle background, standing outside the driver's door of the car. Moody was in the passenger seat, hat pulled down low to cover his spinning eye, and surprisingly, Mundungus Fletcher sat at the back, looking as tramp-like as ever. Remus was suspiciously absent. He didn't know how he felt about that. He felt his stomach sink slightly. Was he perhaps a little disappointed, betrayed? But it wasn't like he wanted him there, anyway – he had practically kicked Remus out. His emotions were a jumbled mess that he couldn't even begin to sort out; whether Remus was there or not was the least of his worries. At least, he tried to tell himself that, anyway.

Tonks smiled at him in greeting, and the most he could manage was a sort of half- grimace.

"What, no hello?" she asked, eyebrow quirked, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Tonks, where are we going?" he interrupted, ignoring her last question.

She looked surprised at the question. "HQ, of course."

He froze. He had suspected that to be the case, but to have it confirmed was almost like a nightmare come true. He didn't want to go there; he was going back to his relatives' house. Just as he was about to turn around and go back, Moody's gruff voice came floating through the window: "Quit dilly-dallying, someone could be watching us. Get your stuff in the trunk and let's go. Hurry up."

"I'm not coming," he said firmly.

"Harry, everyone's expecting you," said Tonks softly.

"I don't care. I'm not coming."

"Get in the car, boy," said Moody through clenched teeth.

"I said, I'm not coming," he repeated, jaw set in a stubborn line.

"Now."

"Harry, get in the car. Please."

It was the pleading note in Tonks' voice that made him hesitate, at war with himself, knowing that they would not leave him alone, yet unwilling to go to _his_ house and face the pitying looks that would be bestowed upon him. Resigning himself, he swallowed and climbed into the car, leaving his trunk to be carried into the boot by Tonks.

He was going to Grimmauld Place, the place that held most of the memories he had of Sirius. The house that Sirius hated. The house that had been a virtual prison for Sirius. A house that held bitter memories for him. A house, that to Sirius, was what Privet Drive was to Harry_. Dumbledore_, he thought maliciously. _Dumbledore did this to us_.

The trip from Surrey to London should have taken, at most, an hour and a half. It took four. Moody insisted on a detour through Bath, Bristol and up towards Oxford, and then back to London. He pushed to go up to Manchester, but that was quickly vetoed by both Tonks and Fletcher. They finally arrived at eleven-thirty and parked the car on the kerb a little away from where number twelve should have been.

Harry wearily crawled out of the vehicle. The long journey and the reluctance to be here, coupled with a month's worth of sleepless nights, was finally catching up to him. He surveyed the darkened street, lit by the unnatural orange glow of streetlamps, and picked out where headquarters should have stood. Concentrating for a brief moment, he made the house visible to himself and found himself being dragged roughly in its direction by Moody. His grip was tight but Harry couldn't bring himself to care enough to pull away, as he was led by the arm towards the threshold of the house.

He had finally arrived.

hr

AN: Merry Christamas! Please review.


	5. Interlude 1

**Interlude 1: Letter to a Dead Man**

Dear Sirius,

I'm really worried about Harry. I found him holding his family at wand point. I think he would have cursed them if I hadn't turned up. He scared me, Sirius. He's not the same boy I met two years ago. I don't know what to do, Siri. He's very broken up about you, I'm afraid he might snap and do something we'll all regret. I feel stupid writing this — I know you're gone, that you've moved on, but dammit Siri, Harry needs you._ I _need you. I've been alone for too long, way too long. I lost everything that night. Everything. James, Lily, Peter and you. I think you hurt the most. A traitor. After we had trusted you so much, looked past your familial affiliations, made you part of our group, you turned your back on us. You betrayed James, who had treated you like a brother; you returned to your pureblood roots. It was so hard to get over the "fact" that you killed everyone. I was so angry at you, beyond angry. I was wrong about you. I'm so sorry I didn't try harder to find out what had really happened. I'm so sorry I left you to rot in Azkaban. I'm so sorry. If only I had trusted you more, if only, then you wouldn't have been in Azkaban. You would have been here with me and little Harry. You wouldn't have run off, you wouldn't have gone and left me. Like I left you. I'm so sorry. For everything.

I spent my time after you were all gone drifting from place to place, in a blind stupor, in a drunken haze. Wandering about with no real purpose, passing out on the sidewalks. I was a mess, a real mess. An old Muggle man found me one day, passed out, somewhere up north. He took me in even though I was twenty years old, helped me get back on my feet. He died a year later and since then I've wandered about, looking for odd jobs here and there. I couldn't take a job that required any sort of commitment, so most kept refusing me, Muggle and wizard alike. Then Dumbledore offered me the defense job and, well, I had my reservations, but you had just escaped and I wanted to get my hands on you. Rip you limb from limb. Preferably on the full moon. And I did meet you on the full moon.

But I also found something very different. I found an innocent man who everyone had condemned for something he didn't do, and a dead man standing. Finding you were innocent must have been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I'm not going to lie to you, it did hurt that you believed I was the traitor, although I can't hold it against you — I've done the same and worse. Even though you weren't cleared that night, even though I messed everything up by not taking my potion, I had you back. I was, for the first time in thirteen years, truly happy. I was living a dream because filthy werewolves don't deserve to be happy.

But then I started to believe that the dream was real, that I hadn't cracked and imagined everything and the restraints that were trapping me, holding me back, were starting to loosen. I started to really believe I had my best friend back. But, it was a dream, a dream I was rudely awakened from, a prelude to a nightmare. And you, you were gone. Gone. Stolen away. For ever.

Just when I had someone again, someone to lean on, someone to just be with, someone who didn't care about my furry little problem… just when that happens, when I start feeling less alone, when I start to_ feel _again, start to_ live,_ that someone gets taken away. Don't I deserve a break? Why? Did you do it on purpose? Because I left you in Azkaban? I miss you so much. Why did you go? Why? You were supposed to stay in the house. You never do as you're told, ever, and see where it got you. You're gone. Gone, and you're not coming back. You've left me alone. Again. Why does everyone always leave me? Everyone. First my mother because she couldn't deal with having a filthy werewolf living under the same roof. I was six. Then my father, in second year. He was great. It's not fair that he died from a stupid Muggle disease. I don't think I would have lived to see nine without him. Then James, Lily, Peter and you. All in one night. Everyone leaves me. I must be cursed with more than just lycanthropy. Why did you leave me? Why did you leave Harry? He saw it all, you know. He was going to go after you. He went after _her _to get revenge for you. I couldn't stop him. He hates me though, he thinks I'm trying to take your place. There's only so much pressure a fifteen year old can take, and although he's been remarkably resilient, I'm afraid that this may have just pushed him over the edge. Wherever you are, Siri, I hope you're watching over him. Keep him safe, Siri.

Budge up, save me a seat. I have a feeling I won't survive this war and even if I do, I'm still going to join you. Not yet, though — after the war, after I've killed her for you, ripped her limb from limb.

RJL.


	6. Grimmauld Place

Thank you to my beta Laughableblackstorm for her amazing work as always. Enjoy.

**Chapter V: Grimmauld Place**

The numb state which Harry had been in throughout the journey from Little Whinging to London seemed to melt away like a sugar cube dissolving in hot water, as soon as he stepped through the creaky oak door of number twelve. The monster of angry, bubbling, swirling emotions inside of him reared its head furiously. A fresh wave of grief washed over him, making him suddenly lightheaded. He swayed briefly, his hand coming to rest on his spinning head as his vision blurred. Moody steadied him with a grunt and led him over to the dusty sofa in the living room, where he stood with his head bowed and arms outstretched on the backboard, leaning heavily on it. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and felt the worst of the dizziness disappear, only to be replaced with nausea. He felt sick, sicker than he had ever felt in his life. Gathering what little strength he had left, he pushed himself into an upright position and quickly made his way to the bathroom, where he proceeded to empty his stomach. Utterly spent, he rested his forehead on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, seeking solace in its lack of warmth. He did not know how long he sat there, trying to regain some semblance of dignity, when he was startled by a knock on the door.

"Harry?" came Tonks' voice, timidly.

"Yeah," he croaked through his raw throat.

"Are you alright in there?"

"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute."

He pushed himself slowly up from the floor and, feeling unsteady on his feet, leaned onto the tiled wall for support. He took several deep breaths, washed his face and rinsed out his mouth thoroughly before running a critical eye over his reflection in the grubby mirror hanging over the sink. His hair was limp and lying flat for once, his cheeks were hollow and he had heavy bags under his eyes. He supposed he did look sick; maybe he was coming down with something. He gave his reflection a scathing look and left the bathroom, going straight upstairs to his room.

He collapsed tiredly onto the bed without sparing a thought to nightclothes, and pulled the covers over his head. His stomach was still churning unpleasantly and he felt powerless to stop the shivering that had taken hold of his limbs. He curled into a fetal position and hoped that he would fall asleep soon, if only for the temporary relief he would get from his complaining body.

*~*~*~*

Even the best of us dislike being woken up in the morning, especially if the sleep you are being woken from is the best you've had in a while. Being woken by your crazy best friend jumping on your bed and grinning like a loon, well…the reaction may vary depending on how cranky you are, but the sheer ridiculousness of Ron's freckly face bobbing up and down and his flailing limbs brought a ghost of a smile to Harry's face after he had gotten past his initial irritation. Ron, finally noticing that Harry was awake, jumped one last time and continued the downward motion so that he ended up in a seated position close to Harry's feet.

"Morning, sleepy head," he said with a goofy grin on his face. "Good to see ya, mate."

"Hi, Ron," he replied smiling tiredly.

"When did you get here?"

"Here? Oh, last night, quite late."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Harry looked at him blankly. "Wake you?"

"Yeah, you know, to tell me you were here."

Harry blinked uncomprehending. Ron watched him, a hurt look coming across his features. "You didn't even notice I was here, did you?"

Harry looked over at the bed on the other side of the room; it had obviously been slept in, the covers were rumpled and looked like they had been thrown off in a hurry. "Er… Well, it was dark and late and –"

"It's okay, Harry, you don't have to make excuses. I know you have a lot on your mind."

Harry stared at the bed covers. He twisted the sheets in his fingers to give him something to do and avoid looking at Ron. He didn't want to hide things from him, but he didn't want to hurt his feelings either. Ron was terribly insecure and telling him that he hadn't been noticed wouldn't be the best idea. Not only that he, himself, felt terribly stupid for not even noticing anyone else in the room. Although he supposed that he could be excused, what with this being _his_ house and the last time he had been here was through the floo on _that_ god-awful day. He grit his teeth to stop himself going down that train of thought and glanced back up at Ron, quickly looking down again and feeling incredibly awkward.

Ron watched him for a moment longer and seemed to decide not no press the issue, to which he was extremely thankful. "Come on, let's go down for breakfast."

Glad for the excuse, he hurriedly jumped off the bed and followed Ron out the door.

*~*~*~*

The smell of bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen, as he descended the stairs, would have normally made his mouth water. Instead, with his recent loss of appetite, it turned his stomach, and unless he wanted to puke his guts out or turn tail and run the other way, he had to concentrate on breathing shallowly and calming his stomach until he became accustomed to the strong smell.

Ron pushed the door open, and greeted everyone with a cheery, "Morning." He strode in with big purposeful steps and took his place at the table next to Ginny. Harry stood awkwardly by the door, unwilling to announce himself in quite the same manner Ron had. The kitchen was a busy place—Mr Weasley was halfway to the door, a piece of toast crammed in his mouth as he used his arms to pull on his jacket; Tonks, Ginny and Hermione sat at one end of the table, laughing at the stories Fred and George told, in alternating sentences, of the success of their joke shop in Diagon Alley; Moody stood in the corner of the kitchen, his back to the wall, magical eye spinning crazily, sniffing each forkful of food before eating it; Remus looked to be brooding on a stool in another corner, nursing a cup of coffee moodily; and Mrs Weasley, in the middle of it all, bustled about the kitchen, flipping the bacon, taking the eggs off the stove and attending to everyone's demands without neglecting to peck her husband on his cheek with a muttered "Be safe" as he left for work.

Harry smiled awkwardly and slunk in with a muttered, "Good morning," and sat opposite Ron, next to one of the twins.

"Harry!" shrieked Hermione in surprise, drawing everyone's attention to him. "When did you get here?" she asked, a bright smile adorning her face. It seemed to him like everyone in the kitchen was holding their breath while waiting for his answer.

"Hi, Hermione," he replied, smiling. "Last night."

The kitchen suddenly came to life again, with everyone struggling to make themselves heard over the cacophony of voices that greeted Harry. It seemed like everyone was trying to get their own greeting in and hear him respond to their version of the same question, namely, 'How are you?' to which he responded with 'Fine.' Mrs Weasley, not one to ignore a guest—especially not one as favoured as Harry, whom she regarded as one of her own—came around the table and grabbed him in one of her bone crushing hugs, and then proceeded to hold him at arms length to study him critically.

"You're looking much too thin, dear. Don't those Muggles feed you anything? Not to worry, we'll fatten you up, get some good food into you," she said and he stared wide-eyed as she proceeded to fill up his plate with rashers of bacon and fried eggs and a generous helping of baked beans, wondering how on earth he was going to be able to refuse all that. "Now come on, eat all of that up, and you can have seconds when you're finished."

Harry looked around the table wide eyed. _With that mountain of food, she expects me to have seconds?_ His eyes darted around the kitchen, desperately looking for an escape from the mountain of food lying on his plate, taunting him, and the watchful eyes of Mrs Weasley.

"Lay off the poor boy, Mrs Weasley," said Tonks with a sly grin.

_Thank goodness she took pity on me and came to my rescue, _he thought_ –_

"Look at him; he looks like someone's just threatened to cut off his balls."

– _Or not._

Harry spluttered and turned red in embarrassment as the table erupted with laughter. Mrs Weasley looked disapproving and Tonks was grinning openly at his reaction. Even Hermione looked amused.

Once the laughter had died down, she looked at him more closely and in genuine concern. "How are you feeling, Harry, after last night?"

"I'm alright."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Last night? Why? What happened last night?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened. I was just a bit…er…carsick yesterday," he replied, avoiding Tonks' eyes. "Anyway, no big deal. So, what have you lot been up to? How's the joke shop going?" he asked, steering the conversation to safer waters.

The twins, always eager for an audience, launched into a long explanation into the joke shop's success—"All thanks to you of course, mate."—and the numerous pranks they had played on the merchants of Diagon Alley. It sounded like the shop was doing well. When he left the kitchen, he realised that Remus wasn't among those who had greeted him and had left the kitchen shortly after he had entered it.

*~*~*~*

"Yeah? Well, fuck you too!" He screamed, anger clouding his vision.

Presently, Harry and Hermione, both red in the face—one from anger and the other from embarrassment—were standing facing each other. Ron was standing to Hermione's left and had taken a slightly protective stance in front of her. Ginny was to her right and slightly behind. They were in one of the empty rooms that they had been tasked to clean. There was a bucket full of _Mrs Troben's Household Disinfectant_ near the window ledge and three soggy cloths hanging off the side of the bucket. The tension in the room was palpable. The temperature had risen to an almost unbearable degree. Ron ignored the sweat beading on his forehead.

"What the hell do you know about anything? I don't need to talk about my _feelings_, thank–you–very–much," he said, taking a step towards her.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. She flinched as the water in the bucked sloshed. Ron also took a step forward.

"You think you can just read about anything in a book? Wake up, Hermione, this is real life, you're not going to find everything in a book, and certainly _not _anything about me," he said scathingly.

"Shut up, Harry," Ron said fiercely as Hermione fled the room. He glanced over at the doorway Hermione had left through. "What was that for? You know she was only trying to help."

Harry glared back "I don't need any _help_."

Ron's eyes narrowed. "You're an arse, you know that? _You're an arse." _

Harry's jaw clenched in response and he glared at Ron's back as he stomped out of the room angrily.

The bed creaked and Harry whirled around to face it. Ginny had just sat down; he had forgotten that she was still in the room. She was looking up at him, disapproval written all over her face.

"What?" he asked gruffly.

She raised a delicate eyebrow in response. He did not need this right now. She had no right – _no right_ to judge him.

He turned around, abashed, but the adrenaline running through his veins refused to give way to rationality and allow him to admit that he may have overreacted. He was still angry and annoyed. How dare she come in and start telling him what he _needed_ to do? What he _needed_ was to be left alone. He glanced at Ginny and turned on his heel, leaving the room, unwilling to listen to self-righteous chatter. What did she know, anyway?

*~*~*~*

Later on in the day, Harry was sitting in the drawing room, gazing blankly at the Black family tree that hung in the corner of the room. He didn't need to _talk _about his feelings. It was no one's business how he felt. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes briefly against the memories that threatened to assault him. The restless feeling of last summer was long gone. He picked idly at a loose thread on the chair. He was so tired, oh so very tired. His bones ached with the memory of Sirius' shocked eyes as he fell through that god-forsaken veil. His eyelids drooped and the effort of forcing them open again was too much. Sirius would never open his eyes again. His head lolled to the side. He would just rest his eyes a bit. Just for a little while. Maybe, one day, he'd be lucky enough to rest his eyes and never open them again. Maybe he could have a reprieve from this pain. Maybe he could close his eyes for one last blink and never open them again. Maybe he would find peace. Was that too much to hope for?

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**A/N: Thank you for sticking with me for all this time. I do apologise for the delay. Please review to keep my wheels greased and keep me going! Reviews really are a great form of motivation.**


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